


Best Stuff Ever

by bitsandbobsandstuff



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Beyonce karaoke is the only kind that matters, Bucky Barnes Fluff, Bucky loves pop tarts, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Guns are too, Lace panties are great, New Year's Resolutions, Sassy Bucky Barnes, So is Taco Bell, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unexpected Proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsandbobsandstuff/pseuds/bitsandbobsandstuff
Summary: Every year, Bucky makes his new year’s resolutions. And every year, he fails. Maybe this time, with a little help from his favourite girl, things will turn out different.





	1. Best. Proposal. Ever.

**JANUARY 1**

The wall feels blessedly cool against your forehead. Resisting the urge to bang your head repeatedly, you try an angry whispered pep talk.

“Come on. Come _on_. Go. This is _not_ a big deal, it’s _not._ Get in there. Now. Now. _Now_.”

The kitchen is so close the scent of fresh coffee makes your mouth water. You could be in there, sipping that delicious black gold, but no. Instead, you’re standing in the hallway, shuffling awkwardly and berating yourself.

See, here’s the problem.

Last night at midnight, there were fireworks and party horns screaming as the New Year arrived. Slightly tipsy on champagne and caught up in the crazy whirl, you melted into Bucky’s snuggly hug. When he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, the feel was pure electricity. Without thinking, you turned into him, pressing your lips to his. 

It was tradition. A kiss at midnight. Everyone does it.

Except you _lingered_.

Breaking the kiss, you didn’t step away. It was far too easy to let yourself drown in those cool blue eyes. He held your stare and you saw the excitement brewing in his face. Then he took a breath, and you _knew_ if he spoke, your walls would crumble.

Because since day one, Bucky’s made it _abundantly_ clear he wants more.

So, like always, you panicked. Stepped back. Made another excuse and rushed off before he could speak.

On the surface, it makes no sense. Bucky Barnes is it, the full package. Full of dry humor and sweet smiles, his no filter approach to life leaves you breathless at time. And of course, there’s the obvious.

He is delightfully, _scandalously_ sexy.

But you know starting something with him won’t work. Relationships are always hard, but when you tack on the business of avenging? They’re damn near impossible. Keeping your distance is best. Bucky always looks disappointed, but he respects the decision. Although it doesn’t stop him from flirting outrageously every time you’re together. You know he’s holding out hope that you’ll change your mind.

Cut to this morning.

You know he’s sitting alone in the kitchen. A barrier of sinfully sexy man sits between you and the coffee and you’re feeling exceedingly stupid about last night’s reaction to an innocent kiss.

“Go. Just sack the fuck up and _go_.”

Shoving yourself into the kitchen, you find Bucky hunched over a piece of paper. Deep in concentration, his tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth while he writes and the sheer adorableness makes your brain go fuzzy. Wide swaths of skin are on full display, as he’s decided to visually massacre you today by wearing nothing but a ragged pair of sweatpants.

 _Fuck_.

“Morning,” he says, his voice quiet with a handful of gravel.

“Morning,” you murmur and head straight for the coffee, where the first sip sends caffeine surging through your veins. Sighing blissfully, you glance up to find him watching you, a small smile on his lips. “What are you doing?”

“New year’s resolutions,” he says. “Make them every year, but never seem to finish them.” He gives you considered look. “Keep thinking maybe I just need the right…motivation.”

“Maybe I can help,” you offer. “Tell me your list and I’ll keep you on track.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure, I can whip you into shape.”

Bucky makes a little humming sound. “That sounds like a good time.”

Embarrassment skitters down your spine at the innuendo. “Well, you – um, show me what you’ve got.”

With a flourish, he brandishes the list. Written in careful block letters, you find four items and a random assortment of doodles.

  1. Dance more
  2. Find my karaoke song
  3. Stop holding grudges



Whatever you expected, it wasn’t this. You’d assume Bucky Barnes’ new year’s resolutions included things like increase number of fiery explosions per mission and learn three new ways to sever a femoral artery, but these are surprisingly normal.

“These are great, Bucky. Are you only doing three though? I thought you only made lists in multiples of four.”

He gives you a cheeky wink. “I like that you know that. But no. I’m living on the edge this year.”

“Ah. I like your drawings.”

“Right? Everyone thinks Steve’s the artist, but I hold my own,” he points to the line of knives and grenades and cats he’s drawn down the page. “Figure if I get tired of murder and revenge, this could be another career path.”

The decisiveness in his voice makes you bite back a smile.

“Well, I swear I’ll harass you whenever required,” you say and Bucky’s nose scrunches when he grins.

Gathering up your coffee, and thanking god you made it out without looking like an idiot, you turn to walk away when he suddenly barks out a request.

“Wait! We should shake on it. Make it official.”

Sometimes he gets weirdly formal about things, so you capitulate with a firm shake. Right before you pull away, you feel him curl his finger and teasingly tickle your palm.

A long shiver runs from your head to your toes. Tugging your hand nervously away, you fold it behind your back. He smiles, little crinkles lining his eyes.

It’s _distracting_.

“Um. Okay. Bye then.”

And you turn and hurry from the kitchen.

Bucky scratches his nose with the pen cap and watches you leave. He starts to fold up his list, when an idea pops in his head. One he’s been thinking about for ages. Since the very first day he met you.

Best day ever, actually.

Smoothing out the list, he adds one more thing. Then he folds it carefully and slips it into his pocket.

*****

**RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE**

“Sometimes I can’t believe this is our job,” Bucky says with relish. He adjusts his duffel bag, dragging you through the crowded alley.

Tripping along behind him, you hold tight to his sleeve. “Remind me why you volunteered for this mission?”

“I said I wanted to dance more,” he answers nonchalantly. “New Year’s resolution and all. Seemed like a good opportunity.”

“But it’s a _strip club_. I thought you meant like, you wanted to tap dance or something. You know you’ll be dancing on a stage. In front of people. In tiny underwear. Like - _very_ tiny underwear.”

“What?” Bucky gasps and stops so abruptly you slam into him. He spins around to face you. “Are you saying people will see my special naughty place?”

“You’re an asshole,” you grumble and he laughs.

“Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be encouraging my resolutions. You promised to support me.”

“Yeah, well…”

You did agree. You just didn’t know fulfilling the resolution would involve wiggling his man bits for all the world to see.

Not that it matters. Because it doesn’t. It _doesn’t_.

There’s a burly bouncer guarding the back entrance to the club and he lifts an eyebrow when you both arrive. Bucky turns it on, rubbing his neck and giving the man a shaky smile.

“Hello sir. Is it okay if she comes with me? It’s my first time on stage and I’m just feeling so nervous, you know? Like, ugh! Are people gonna like my dance and will I be able to swing around the pole right and what if my junk falls out of my underwear too soon? God, it’s like, so stressful!”

The man rolls his eyes, waves you through, and goes back to Tinder swiping.

“Nailed it,” Bucky whispers smugly. “Hashtag espionage.”

Backstage, the world smells like baby powder and perfume. The club specifically hires dancers who look like celebrities, and seeing a parade of scantily clad men and women you think you recognise is strange.

Bucky looks around with interest. You suddenly want to staple his eyes shut.

“Quit staring,” you mutter. “We’re supposed to be undercover.”

“I’m not staring, it’s _reconnaissance_. Why? Does it bother you?” He nudges you. “Don’t worry, you know I only prefer you. Gimmie that green light and I’ll prove it.”

Hefting the duffel bag on the make-up table labelled **DANCER 3: WINTER SOLDIER** , he empties the contents.

“Bucky, you know we – ”

“Aha!” Fishing his outfit for the night from the pile, he dangles it in front of you. “Sexy right? You gonna be okay with everyone seeing me in tiny underwear?”

That’s – okay. That’s a red g-string. He’s going to wear a red g-string and get all sweaty and oily and dance in front of everyone.

This is bullshit.

“I’m – that’s just. Yeah. _Yes_ , of course. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Why the hell did your voice scale up? He tilts his head and there’s that smartass little grin.

“No reason. Just hoping you might wanna keep my ass all to yourself.”

“Well, I’d hate to deprive the world from the glory that is your ass.”

“I do have a great ass,” Bucky agrees solemnly. “You know there’s even a Twitter account for it?”

“I know,” you say drily. “You started that Twitter account.”

“Well, someone needed to. Alright, I gotta change now.”

And he starts stripping.

He kicks off his boots and tugs his shirt over his head and your mouth goes dry. His fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jeans and he slides it down slowly, your eyes following with fascination. When he starts to pull the jeans open, you lick your lips.

Bucky clears his throat.

Wide eyes fly up to meet his and you find a ridiculously smug expression.

“Sorry,” you sputter and he shrugs.

“S’okay. I like when you look at me. You’re gonna oil me up for this too, right?”

He tosses you a bottle of baby oil and you immediately fumble it. It slips and slides and you drop it, step on it, and kick it under the make-up table.

Bucky looks at you in surprise.

Panicked, you make a beeline for the door, calling behind you. 

“I gotta go. You’re good. Have – fun. Or whatever. Bye.”

Thirty minutes later, you’ve finished a sweep of the place and settled into position. Waiting for Bucky’s show to begin, the internal debate rages fiercely.

It doesn’t _matter_ , right? Bucky Barnes isn’t yours. There’s no friend’s with benefits thing and you don’t want a relationship. You _don’t_. You’ve made that perfectly clear.

So, here’s the million dollar question then: if you don’t care, why the hell does the idea of an oily, naked, dancing Bucky make you want to blind everyone else in this club?

You have a problem.

“Fucking _focus_ ,” you snap to yourself. Fixing your eyes on the evening’s targets, the four Hydra assholes in the booth opposite the stage, you shove aside the mental images of oily, naked, dancing Bucky and concentrate.

Sort of.

Until –

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new dancer. Here for his stage debut, put your hands together for our _sexy_ Winter Soldier!”

The lights dim.

Smoke billows across the stage and a tall shadow appears in the door leading backstage. Broad shouldered, shoulder length hair, even the arrogant outline of his body exudes sex.

Full scale theatrics. Of course.

He steps forward and the spotlight embraces him. Music blares through the speakers and the crowd goes _ballistic_.

Dressed all in black, from his leather jacket and leather pants, to the combat boots and mask hiding his face, he murder struts across the stage and grabs the pole. With his left hand, he lifts himself easily, curving his body gracefully as he swings a slow circle.

“Oh my god,” you grit out.

“Oh my _god_ ,” you hear two women beside you groan happily.

Bucky dances like he _owns_ the stage, punctuating each heavy bass beat with a thrust of his hips. As he moves, he drags down the zipper of his leather jacket, teasing it from his shoulders until is slides off and he launches it into the crowd.

Under the low light, his bare chest shimmers with oil.

“Jesus that arm is realistic,” a guy behind you shouts.

Bending at the waist, he runs his hands slowly up his legs and then reaches behind and slaps his ass. Popping the button on his way too tight leather pants, he starts to shimmy them down his hips. How he manages to get out of them so easily is a question for the ages, but there they go, flying into the audience.

Cocking his hip, he poses. Dark hair frames the black mask and his thick thighs are accentuated by his black combat boots, and _of course_ , there it is, in all its itty-bitty glory.

The red g-string.

What. The. Fuck.

“What the _fuck_ ,” you whine under your breath.

And then it gets worse.

He falls to his hands and knees and crawls across the stage. It feels like you swallowed sawdust so you start chugging a bottle of water. When he reaches the end, he sits up on his knees and drags his hands through his hair. His hips mimic the heavy bass beat, rolling in a slow, pulsing rhythm.

“This is fucking _bullshit_ ,” you hiss. Fingering the rough handle of the gun strapped beneath your coat, you glare at the beautiful woman by the stage who’s now enthusiastically shoving dollar bills in the waistband of Bucky’s underwear.

Later, you’ll thank god and Steve Rogers’ precise ops planning timeline, for saving you from accidentally shooting her in the foot on purpose.

Because here’s what happens next.

Like a record scratch, the music ends and that’s the cue. Lightning fast, Bucky flips backward, and you’re not sure _how_ he does it without his dick flopping out of his tiny underwear, but mid-roll, he snakes two knives from his boots and lets them fly.

Wickedly sharp blades hit the necks of the two men on the edge of the booth. The other two men leap up, drawing their guns, but they’re so focused on _Bucky_ , they never see you coming. Two well aimed bullets hit their mark and both drop.

There’s plenty of screaming in the club, although half the crowd appears entertained, thinking maybe it’s all part of the Winter Soldier show. But then the lights go up and here come Sam and Steve, bringing it to a close.

Handcuffs, several arrests, a little more baby oil, and a few mission reports later, the place is clearing out.

Bucky stands by the stage, still dressed in his tiny underwear and combat boots, a patient smile on his face. The same woman who was shoving money down his pants earlier is batting her eyelashes and trailing her finger down his arm.

It makes you see red, and no, that’s not a euphemism for the scrap of cloth covering his goods. In that moment, the clouds clear and you realise something.

Maybe it’s a good idea, maybe it’s not – but you’re done ignoring this feeling.

Stalking toward them, Bucky shoots you a look, begging to be extracted from the conversation. Stepping between them, you face the woman, removing her hand from his bicep and giving her a brittle smile.

“Hi. Time to back off, Karen.”

“My name’s not Karen,” she sneers.

“Whatever.” Pulling the money from Bucky’s underwear, you turn around and shove the fistful of bills in her face. “He’s good, thanks.”

She looks like she’s going to say something, but you make a waving motion with your hands. “Shoo. Go away.”

Turning back to face him, you find a dark little smirk.

“Jealous, honey cakes?” he asks saucily.

“ _Insanely_ ,” you admit and shock lights up his face. Locking your fingers behind his neck, you pull his face toward you. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot. Can I change my mind? I want to try this you and me thing. If you’re still interested, I mean.”

“Holy shit, I’m _so fucking interested_ ,” he says eagerly.

“Also, I know you wanted to dance more this year, but how about no more dancing unless it’s just for me. Is that okay?”

Bucky answers with a deep kiss and you feel him grinning.

“Fuck yes it’s okay,” he sucks your lip when he pulls back. “See, I _knew_ you loved my ass. You can run the Twitter account now, if you want.” 

**~~RESOLUTION #1: DANCE MORE~~ **

*****

**RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG**

Deep in thought, Bucky slouches in the cracked leather booth. Absently peeling the label from a bottle of beer, he flips through a fat notebook stuffed with song titles.

Once in a blue moon, the world decides to play nice and you find yourself mission free for a night. It seems like the perfect opportunity to work down his list, so with a little cajoling and a few well-placed kisses, here you are. 

“I don’t know about this,” he says doubtfully.

“I do. Come on, you’ll be great.”

“Well I know _that_ ,” he says, taking a swing of beer. “I’m always awesome. So are you, by the way. I’m just not sure any of these songs can really _showcase_ my awesomeness.”

“The ongoing tragedy of your life,” you reply in amusement.

He snorts in agreement as he flips through the binder, page after page, shunning every song he finds, until he stops. Shuffles back a few pages and a sly smile emerges.

“Nevermind. I have it. Best idea ever,” he decides. Slamming the book shut, he picks up the stubby little pencil, scribbling the title on a piece of paper. When you try to get a peek, he shields it from view and tuts at you.

Bemused, you steel yourself for the inevitable occurrence that comes with taking Bucky Barnes _anywhere_.

That is to say: shit might get weird.

Folding the paper into a complex paper airplane, he aims it at the kid manning the karaoke machine. It zips through the air and lands right on top of the pile of song requests. The kid looks unfolds the paper and looks around, searching for the requester.

Bucky waves maniacally and points to himself. The kid gives him a strange look. Looks at the paper in confusion. Looks back up to Bucky, who nods again and gives him two enthusiastic thumbs up. The kid shrugs and punches the song into the machine. 

Now officially decision free, he snakes an arm over your shoulders and nuzzles his face against your neck. Tugging your legs toward him, he walks feather light fingers up your thigh, slipping under your skirt.

“Hey, listen,” he breathes against your skin and goosebumps bloom in the path of cool metal. “Think I’m gonna need some physical encouragement. My ego’s very fragile.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not. But how’s about you lemme feel your panties anyway?”

“Bucky _stop_ ,” you whisper sternly, pushing his hand down, “saying panties. It’s creepy. Now get your head in the game.”

“ _Okay_ ,” he whispers, choking back a laugh. He squeezes your knee instead. “But just tell me one thing though, and be honest – are they lace? I fucking _love_ lace.”

“Yes, I know. You texted me seven times while I was shopping. Try not to suck ass up there and maybe later you’ll find out.”

He makes a growling noise and bites your ear.

“Fuck me, you’re so god damn _sexy_.”

Whiling away the time until his song, he spends the next fifteen minutes trying to persuade you to join him in the bathroom for ‘ _just one quick peek at your underpanties, I swear that’s all_.’ His fingers are stroking the inside of your thigh and you’re _this close_ to giving in, when a voice booms through the bar.

“James Barnes! You’re up.”

“Woo yeah, here we go,” Bucky sings out. Planting a huge kiss on your lips, he rolls from the booth and heads up front.

Foregoing the stairs, because he’s exceptionally dramatic, he leaps onto the stage and finger-guns the crowd as he strolls to the centre. Plucking the microphone from the stand, he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, bounces on his toes and shakes his arms, loosening up. His voice drops several octaves when he lifts the mic and speaks.

“This one,” he drawls, raising a finger and aiming at you, “is for that absolutely _gorgeous_ creature right there.”

Then he blows you a kiss and looks over to the sound guy working the music.

“Hit it Jeeves,” he orders.

There’s a momentary pause and the down beat hits. And there, on the stage of a small divey karaoke bar on the outskirts of Manhattan, you see something you never expected.

Bucky Barnes, belting out Beyonce without a hint of self-consciousness.

_Such a funny thing for me to try to explain_

_How I’m feeling and my pride is the one to blame_

_‘Cause I know I don’t understand_

_Just how your love can do what no one else can_

The blue screen displaying the lyrics is wholly unnecessary. He clearly knows the song by heart, his rendition is flawless and his Beyonce imitation so perfectly on point, you wonder when the hell he had time to memorise it all.

Watching him in that moment, a flash of understanding fills your head, and you know. Beyond a shadow of doubt, you know.

You are in love with this man.

_Crazy in love._

Wildly and completely, with every piece of your heart.

_If you ain’t there, ain’t nobody else to impress_

_It’s the way that you know what I thought I knew_

_It’s the beat my heart skips when I’m with you_

_But I still don’t understand_

_Just how your love can do what no one else can_

Basking in the fresh knowledge, you laugh when Bucky suddenly jumps from the stage. Without missing a beat, he remains effortlessly in tune. Eyes locked on you, he dances his way through the crowded tables, a slow progression toward you.

And when he arrives, you fall even further.

Hand on his heart, Bucky serenades you, big and sweaty and beautiful. When he motions you up, you climb easily from the booth and find yourself face to face in the unexpected spotlight.

_‘Cause your love’s got the best of me,_

_And baby, you’re making a fool of me,_

_You got me sprung and I don’t care who sees_

_‘Cause, baby, you got me, you got me so crazy –_

“Nah, fuck it.”

He ends the song there, dropping the mic where it hits the floor with a screech. Curling a wide palm behind your neck, another around your waist, he dips you back over his arm and captures your lips in a searing kiss. Throwing every drop of passion into the kiss, you jump and he catches you, pulling your legs tight around his hips. His mouth slants across yours and he keeps kissing you, longer and harder, until you’re both gasping for air.

You feel lightheaded and tingly. And then Bucky bumps his nose against yours and whispers three new words in your ear.

“I love you, honey sugar. I really do, I’m so fucking crazy for you. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Raking your fingers through his messy mop of hair, you kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips. Every inch of skin you can find.

“I really love you too,” you say breathlessly. “This is our song now, right?”

“You’re damn straight it is.”

**~~RESOLUTION #2: FIND MY KARAOKE SONG~~ **

*****

**RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES**

Perched on the roof, you press your eye to the scope on your rife. Through the cross-hairs, you see people milling below, dressed in cocktail attire. Bucky has his rifle propped up as well and he grunts when he spies one of your targets for the evening.

“Look at that fucking dickbag hitting on that waitress. She looks upset.” He looks over at you and offers his pleading puppy eyes. “I’m gonna shoot him, ‘kay?”

“Bucky, _no_.”

“Bucky, _yes_.”

His finger caresses the trigger longingly, until you reach over and push his rifle up. He lets out frustrated little squawk.

“You can’t kill him yet, you’ll blow our position.”

“I didn’t say _kill_ him. I said _shoot_. Just a little maiming. He deserves it. Please?”

“Later,” you promise and he sighs. Laying his gun on the edge of the wall, he folds his arms and chews his thumbnail in silence.

Well, as silent as Bucky Barnes can ever be.

“I’m still mad about earlier,” he announces.

“I’m still shocked,” you reply.

Turning to you, he eyes you suspiciously.

“Are you mocking me?”

“I would never do that.”

“That sounds fake, but okay. Do you even know why I’m mad?”

Shrugging, you stay focused on the crowd. “Something Sam did, right?”

“It wasn’t just _something_ ,” Bucky hisses. “This is serious and I need you to pay attention. Do you remember that time I opened all my blueberry Pop Tarts so they could get stale before I ate them?”

“I do,” you say without looking over. “We had ants for a week.”

He waves his hand dismissively.

“Listen, I’m not looking for a history lesson.”

“Also, that was weird. Who eats stale Pop Tarts?”

“I’m also not interested in unwarranted criticism of my culinary skills. The point is, I _thought_ we all agreed that any and all future stale Pop Tarts were to be consumed by me and me alone.”

“We did agree,” you say.

“Then why the hell were all five packages I opened _gone_? They were nearly perfect - almost chewy, just a little crunchy, and now I have to start over. My whole fucking week is ruined.”

Finally looking away from the scope, you fix him with an exasperated stare.

“I know baby, but maybe you should just get over it.”

Betrayal sparks from his eyes at your words. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“ _Maybe I should just get over it?_ How can you say that? Whose side are you on? I’m emotionally compromised here.”

“You’re also a drama queen,” you answer, going back to your scope and Bucky digs a metal finger into your ribs.

“That’s not the point. I’m never getting over this. Sam’s an asshole, he’s been eyeing my Pop Tarts for weeks.”

“ _Kinky_ ,” you murmur under your breath.

He throws his hands up in frustration. “How can you still be joking? I’m righteously indignant and you’re _ruining_ it.”

Through the cross-hairs, the asshole bothering the waitress and his fuckwit companion suddenly appear in a dark window. Bucky sees your posture tense and professional that he is, flips seamlessly from petulant Pop Tart lover back to lethal assassin. Lifting his rifle, he goes silent, waiting for your signal.

“Third floor, second window to the south,” you say quietly. “I’ll take right, you take left.”

Through a stroke of luck, the window into the room is open. Shoulder to shoulder with him, you fire simultaneous silent shots, and in the dark room, both men collapse.

Piece of cake.

Easing the rifles down, you lean together against the wall to disassemble the weapons. Snapping the magazine free, you look at Bucky with a soft smile.

“You know, this is a good opportunity to tick the box on your last New Year’s resolution. The one about not holding grudges. Maybe you should take it, cut Sam some slack.”

He glances over and a strange look comes into his eye. Before you can react, he plucks the gun from your hands and pushes you back, swinging a leg over to straddle you. Pinning your hands above your head, he leans down and leaves a wet kiss on your neck.

“Why are you always right? It’s annoying.”

“Well, I learned from the best,” you reach up and lick his face.

Huffing a laugh, he rubs his damp cheek on you and presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re too good for me. I’m not sure if you know this, but sometimes I get a little murdery.”

“That is absolutely new news,” you deadpan and he growls and digs his fingers into your sides, tickling you until you’re quietly begging him to stop before someone hears. He complies and that strange look is back, before it gives way to an affectionate smile.

“Honey darlin, you know what? You make me want to be a better person.”

You place a kiss on the tip of his nose and he beams.

**~~RESOLUTION #3: STOP HOLDING GRUDGES~~ **

*****

**DECEMBER 31**

Another year has come and gone, but this New Year’s Eve is different.

While the party rages down below, up on the roof the night is quiet. Wrapped in a sea of quilts, you and Bucky lay tangled together on a lounge chair, staring up at the stars.

“So, New Year’s Eve again,” you nudge him. “Looks like you made it through your list this year. Success like that deserves an extra special sexy reward.”

Bucky’s face is buried against your neck and you feel the vibration when he laughs.

“As much as I’d love to cash _that_ in, I don’t deserve it. Not yet.” Keeping the quilt around you, he shuffles himself down your body, until he can rest his chin on your chest. “I didn’t finish the list.”

“Yes, you did,” you remind him, smoothing back his hair. “Dancing, karaoke, no more grudges. We crossed them all off.”

There’s a slow smile spreading over his face. The kind that makes you equal parts nervous and sort of sappy.

“Are you sure that’s all that was on my list?”

He reaches into the pocket of his suit pants and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding it carefully, he hands it over. Written below the third resolution, is a fourth line of text, surrounded by cat doodles. There, in Bucky’s careful print, is one resolution you don’t remember.

  1. ~~Dance more~~
  2. ~~Find my karaoke song~~
  3. ~~Stop holding grudges~~
  4. Sack the fuck up



The words make no sense and you look up in confusion. And for the first time in your life, you see a blush of red staining his cheeks. 

Bucky Barnes is nervous.

He clears his throat.

“Here’s the thing. Every resolution I did, you were with me. And every time, they meant something. Special. About _us_. But I still got this last resolution, and I knew it’d be the hardest one, but I gotta do it before midnight, because I’ve been thinking about it the whole damn year.”

“Okay, can I help you? Does it mean sack up and do something specific?”

“It does. Means something _very_ specific and I do need your help. But before I tell you what, I need you to do me a few favours. Can you reach into my left coat pocket?”

Slightly bewildered, you dig into his coat where your fingers close around a scrap of silk. Pulling it free, you find his red g-string. Stitched on the front in black cursive letters, are your initials.

“That night I did my dance, when you almost kicked that lady’s ass and said you wanted to give us a shot? I’ve never been so fucking excited in my _life_. Told you then I’d only ever dance for you and now I got your initials on my goods, so everyone’ll know. I’m all yours.”

Your heart skips a beat.

It’s the sweetest, weirdest thing he’s ever done. You want to say thanks, but the words are stuck in your throat, blocked by a sudden batch of tears, so you simply nod.

The corner of his lips quirk up.

“Okay, now reach into my left pants pocket.”

He wiggles his hips suggestively and this time, you find a Polaroid picture. The image is a little blurry, but there’s Bucky dipping you backward, your arms around his neck while he kisses you. The memory surfaces easily, of karaoke and Beyonce and declarations of love. On the edge of the photo is a little black button and he squeezes it.

The sound of Bucky singing ‘ _Crazy in Love_ ’ starts playing and the tears in your throat spill now from your eyes.

“Had a few people recording it that night. Got Stark to embed a little speaker in the photo. That night was the first time I said I loved you. Not sure if you knew that. I’d been sweating about it for weeks.”

Taking a shaky breath, you give him a watery smile. “I knew. It was the first time for me too.”

He nods and light as a feather, strokes his thumb down your cheek, wiping away the tears.

“Next. Try my _right_ coat pocket.”

The strange feel of crinkly foil meets your fingers and you discover an open pack of Pop Tarts.

“They’re the frosted cherry ones, ‘cause I know you like those best. Sometimes, when I’m pissed off at the world, I remember what you told me that day on the roof. And I think to myself – if I can forgive someone for eating my Pop Tarts, a capital offence by the way, then I can forgive anything. You really do make me wanna be the best version of myself.”

There’s no conceivable reason why Pop Tarts should be a trigger, but the tears flow faster, punctuated with the occasional hiccup. Bucky chuckles, kissing them away and waiting.

“When I started this year, I had three resolutions in mind and because of you, I did them all. And I made them _count_. You’re the best god damn thing in my life honey. I hope you know that.” He kisses your palm and lays your hand against his cheek.

Bucky has never been shy about telling you these things. He says them frequently, with clarity and conviction. After everything he’s been through, you know it stems from a deep-rooted fear that the things he loves could disappear in the blink of an eye. It’s why he goes full throttle on everything he does – every mission he takes, every date he plans, every toe-curling kiss he gives.

“But after I wrote those resolutions, something was still missing. The one thing I wanted to do more than anything else. That’s why I added that last one.”

“Bucky – ”

“Not just yet,” he whispers. “Last one. Can you check my _right_ pants pocket?”

Smooth satin lining brushes your trembling fingers, until they connect. It feels velvety soft and before you can think, you pull it free.

There it is.

Sitting in the palm of your hand, is a blue velvet jewellery box. Heart thumping wildly, you stare at the box and mutely look up at Bucky. He watches your reaction, his expression raw and vulnerable. Picking the box from your numb fingers, he cracks it open and you see the ring nestled inside. Looking back to him, you see his throat bobbing as he swallows twice, before he can speak. 

“I knew it back in January, that’s why this was my last resolution. _Sack the fuck up_ – and ask her,” he takes a deep breath, his eyes burning into yours. “I love you, honey. I swear I’ll never, ever stop loving you. So, how about it? You wanna be my forever?”

If the only thing you get to see the rest of your life, is that beautiful smile on his face, it’s enough. The answer comes easy, so simple, because it’s _Bucky_.

“ _Yes_. Good god, yes, of course! Yes, yes, yes, _yes_!”

Tipping his head back, he shouts his excitement to the heavens. Taking out the ring, he chucks the empty box over his shoulder and slips it on your finger.

Two kisses follow, one above the diamond, and one below.

He sags with relief, rubbing his neck ruefully. “Jesus I was nervous, no clue how to ask, nothing seemed good enough – ”

“Stop,” you interrupt him, covering his mouth. He narrows his eyes and licks your hand.

“You fucking weirdo,” you giggle and wipe your slobbery palm on his face. “This was perfect, Bucky. _You_ are perfect. And this? Best. Proposal. _Ever_.”

Above you, midnight arrives with an explosion of colour, fireworks streaking in red and green and gold and blue, but you barely notice.

In the frosty air of a brand new year, the love of your life and the warmth of his kiss are the only things you need.


	2. Best. Date. Ever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't quite what you had in mind.

_Dress up_ , he ordered. _Something fancy and sexy. I got a plan._

It sounded promising. A night at the ballet perhaps, or tickets to the opera. Dinner and dancing, maybe. Something classy. Something elegant.

After eyeing them in the window, you decide to buy that pair of outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo’s for the evening, anticipating something spectacular.

Well.

It was something alright.

*****

Black satin clutch tucked tight beneath your arm.

Quiet steps on the balls on your feet.

Gun drawn, cocked and aimed, you tiptoe down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the puddles of yellow light spilling from vintage sconces lining the wall. 

The target looms ahead, a heavy black door at the end of the corridor and a steady stream of quiet curses slips from clenched teeth as you move, damning his dumb ass to hell and back. 

Eyeing the narrow beam of light lining the bottom of the door, you pause when muffled laughter slips beneath the crack. Momentarily confused, you wonder if you have the wrong room.

Nope.

“Answer the fucking question,” a frustrated voice suddenly shouts, followed by the dull thunk of metal slapping skin. Bucky’s responding groan is long and low, a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest.

It sounds desperate.

It sounds wounded.

It sounds – excessively theatrical.

Of course.

Is it possible to roll your eyes so hard you see your brain? 

Leaning into the door, you press an ear to the thick ebony wood. There’s a hum of unintelligible muttering and then plain as day, you hear Bucky’s cheerful response.

“Yeah, no. Feels like you’re hard of hearing there, big boy. You wanna hand me that knife? Let me clean out your ears real nice and careful like? Or maybe you were that stupid kid sitting too close to the TV growing up, watching cartoons while your Mommy was running around banging the mailma – _ow_! Fucking _ouch_ god dammit, what the hell’s the matter with you?! Who the hell _stabs_ someone? That fucking _hurt_!”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh. 

Here’s the thing.

Now and then, the avenging gets slow. It happens occasionally, not often, but enough for you to discover an interesting personality twist. When the avenging gets slow, Bucky Barnes gets bored. And a bored Bucky Barnes is – concerning. Full of pent up energy, leaking sarcasm and sass, he has a small tendency to find trouble.

 _It’s not trouble, it’s called saving the world_ , he always argues.

 _It’s not saving the world, it’s called gratuitous chaos_ , you always respond. 

The voice comes back, full of fury. Electricity pops and sizzles and suddenly Bucky swears at the top of his lungs.

“Wait, wait, wait, stop! Damn, fine, _fine_. You got me, just stop, please, I’ll talk, I’ll talk, let’s talk…about the fact that your mom was _totally fucking the mailman_ , I mean come _on_ – “

The sound of electricity buzzes louder and he howls in pain.

“Say it again,” you hear the voice snarl, followed by Bucky’s breathless reply.

“No joke man, you touch me with that thing again, I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll shit sparks for a week.”

In addition to the whole trouble thing? He’s also a _massive_ drama queen. 

“This is bullshit, Bucky” you hiss at the door, glancing at the absurdly expensive heels and reaching to brush dust from the toe. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”

Seriously. 

Clutching the gun tight, you carefully turn the knob and with a deep breath, hip check it open. And yep. The reveal is exactly what you could have anticipated, because you know Bucky Barnes way, _way_ too well.

Dangling by his hands from a wide steel beam, his wrists encased in what appears to be a reinforced cuff, Bucky swings gently, the toes of his black boots barely brushing the ground. His faded grey t-shirt is slashed down one side, soaked through with thick splotches of blood and clinging to his body like a second skin. Twitching his head to shake away sweaty strands of dark hair, you see the impressive array of purple bruises painting his face, extending down his neck.

He looks terrible. Awful. A beaten man in terrible pain. 

Except – 

The anguished grimace fades when he sees you, morphing into a shit-eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a mocking little hello, he gives you a wink.

What an ass.

Hearing the swinging door, the man in front of Bucky spins, raising a gun in one hand and a taser snapping lime green sparks in the other. Frustration is etched in every line of his face, which is, to be fair, a common expression for anyone talking to Bucky. 

“Drop the gun,” he bellows, shaky hands holding both weapons in front and sounding for all the world like a two-bit security cop in a low-budget heist film. 

Throwing him an impressively impatient scowl, you shake your head.

“Listen, I’ve had a long day and these heels are killing me and I just wanted to spend one night without worrying how I’m getting blood out of my clothes in the morning. So since that fantasy’s shot to shit, can you please just not?”

“Don’t try to distract me!” he yells in response. “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot you both!”

Looking past him, you meet Bucky’s wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes.

Innocent blue eyes. Seriously. What a crock.

“I’m fucking pissed at you,” you warn Bucky, pointing the gun down at your shoes. “These were expensive.”

He pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout and swings himself playfully in the restraints. “Don’t be mad honey baby, it’s all part of the plan.”

“Jesus. I _shudder_ to think what else you have planned.”

The guy follows the exchange like a tennis match, head swiveling in confusion, until he focuses on you again and opens his mouth to shout another disappointingly dull threat, but you hold your hand up to silence him and he looks unbelievably put out by the gesture.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood, alright? I gave you a chance.”

Flicking your eyes to the bloody, sweaty man dangling behind him, you cross your arms and wait. 

Here it comes.

Vengeance fills his features, a blinding smile of murdery glee, and in the blink of an eye, Bucky curls his knees to his chest and hoists himself up with the metal arm. With a casual kick, he hooks his thighs around the man’s neck and squeezes tight.

Dropping both weapons, the man scrabbles at the dirty legs locked around his neck, panic flashing through his face.

“You sir,” Bucky states, as the man chokes, trying to wrench free, “are a real dick.”

With a graceful twist of his hips, he snaps the neck with a jarring crunch. The body collapses in a heap and Bucky glares contemptuously for a second and then proceeds to aim several childish kicks at the head, but his toes are just out of reach and he flails uselessly in the air.

He looks up in annoyance.

“Hi. Little fucking help here please?”

Stepping over the body, you rummage through the pile of electronic gadgets and random torture devices strewn across the table. Locating a small purple device attached to a SpongeBob keychain, you dangle it in front of him.

“Apology first.”

“No worries, I accept your apology,” Bucky says graciously. “Now get me down.”

“No asshole, I want an apology. You said dress up and now my Jimmy Choo’s have blood on them.”

“Okay fine, I’m sorry.” Skeptical of his quick submission, you punch the unlock button slowly and the cuff releases. Bucky drops to his feet, rubs the red chaffing around his wrist, and gives you a wide smile. “I’m sorry you’re a wet blanket who doesn’t appreciate _fun_ , but anyway.” 

He anticipates the move and ducks when you snatch a knife from the table and fling it at him, letting it smack harmlessly against the concrete wall behind him.

“I swear to god, you’re lucky you’re hot Barnes. It sure as hell’s not your personality that keeps me around.”

“The hell do you mean? I’m charming as fuck,” he argues. Wetting his busted lips, he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe away the pool of blood caked in the corner of his mouth, while interested eyes trail down your outfit.

Strapless black silk dress falling to your knees. Diamonds dangling from your ears. Bright red lips. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a flirty little feather on the side. 

His smile turns a shade darker and ten shades filthier.

“You look _smokin_ ’ hot. Nice.”

“And it’s apparently a waste. When you said dress up, I sort of assumed we’d be doing an activity other than murder.” Tossing the keychain on the table, you come closer to scan his impressive mess of injuries. Probing the thick muscle below his ribcage, he sucks in a strangled breath as your fingers brush the source of blood still soaking his shirt.

“Buck – “ you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t baby me, I’m fine. Me and that bag of dicks just had a little disagreement over one of his brainless questions.”

“How did he go from asking questions to sticking a knife in your gut?” you ask, trying to tug up his shirt to confirm the damage.

“No, I will not have sex with you!” he says loudly, pushing your hands away. “God woman, keep it in your pants.”

“I’ll punch you in the knife wound Bucky. I really will.”

Sighing loudly, he stops struggling and lets you pull apart the remaining shreds of his shirt. Examining the blood under his fingernails while you examine the slow leak of blood down his side, he shrugs nonchalantly.

“If you _must_ know, he just got a bit pissy because apparently suck my dick wasn’t the correct response to that question.”

Life with Bucky Barnes is akin to chasing an aggressively accident-prone toddler, so you’re actually prepared for this situation. 

Opening the silver clasp on your clutch, you search for the extra-absorbent bandages you threw in earlier. Folding his hands obediently, Bucky rests them on top of his head and watches with a serene expression while you wipe away the blood from around the wound, before ripping open the bandage and applying it carefully to his skin. 

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you ask, paper held between your teeth, “to try being a little less mouthy?”

Straightening the remains of his bloody t-shirt and wiping your grubby hands on his jeans, you look up to find him grinning.

“It did occur to me. But where’s the fun in that?” He holds his hand out expectantly. “On to part two. Did you bring my gun?”

The worst. Honestly. Sometimes he’s the worst. 

“Yes, I brought your gun, you ungrateful douche.”

Lifting the edge of your skirt reveals the narrow straps of a black thigh holster, with Bucky’s favorite Glock strapped in place. He bites his lip and gives you that filthy smile again, crowding in close. 

“Ugh. _Dammit_ that’s so hot. Here, let me help,” his fingers snag the silky fabric, trying to pull up your skirt. 

Slapping his hand and giving him a warning knee in the balls, he grunts and backs away with his wounded puppy face. Unclipping the gun, you flip it around and hand it over.

“Keep it in your pants Barnes, we don’t have time. The show’s about to start.”

Standing up straight, he salutes you with the barrel of the gun and cocks it dramatically.

“You’re the boss. Lead the way, you sexy little minx.”

*****

Navigating the labyrinth of halls, you find the back staircase leading up to a maze of crevices and hidey holes helpfully built into the rafters of the enormous ballroom. Finding a slot near the edge, you crawl into position, the smooth silk of your dress picking up the thick film of dust, making the slide easy.

God. Dammit. Bucky’s spending tomorrow morning getting this dress dry-cleaned and you better not hear a breath of argument from him.

“Seriously, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” you whisper, knowing full well his annoying super hearing will pick it up and sure enough, he rewards you with a stifled laugh.

The space is dark, muted light from the ballroom’s sparkling chandeliers allowing you to stay hidden from prying eyes down below. Bucky follows close behind, wiggling in next to you. Getting comfortable, he sighs happily and turns to you, gaze drifting from your face down your bare shoulders, over the swell of your ass, and that filthy smile appears again. Reaching down, he massages the back of your knee and runs his hand up your thigh, trying to pull your dress up again.

“Lemme see your panties.”

“For god’s sake, do not say panties, you weird fuck.”

“ _Fine_. Lemme see your underpanties. Are they lace? Tell me they’re lace. You know how much I like lace.” His hand wanders further up to find your black lace covered bottom and he gives a whispered _yes_ of delight. 

Ignoring the wandering hand squeezing handfuls of your ass, you open the black clutch again, extracting four paper-thin pieces of metal. Clicking them together reveals a lightweight air-rifle with a narrow scope affixed to the top.

Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Gimmie,” he says breathlessly, releasing his death-grip on your ass and reaching grabby hands toward the weapon.

Still ignoring him, you prop the rifle on the ledge in front of you and peer through the scope, searching for the reason you’re stuck in the dirty ceiling of this exquisite ballroom, instead of somewhere fashionable with people making jealous remarks about your amazing shoes.

Bucky nudges you.

“ _Gimmie_ ,” he says again.

“No, Bucky.”

“Yes, Bucky,” he insists, now trying to tug it from your grip. “Did you forget I’m the best shot the US army ever had? I even have a certificate that says so. You can’t argue with my certificate, it’s not patriotic. Captain America’ll arrest you.”

Still searching through the crosshairs, you peel his sticky fingers from the barrel with one hand.

“You drawing a picture of a gun, writing ‘Bucky rules’ on it, and taping it to the refrigerator does not mean you have a certificate.”

He gives an indignant little squawk. “Uh, I didn’t _tape_ it to the ‘fridge, I _superglued_ it to the ‘fridge. That fucker’s never coming down.”

“Can you please shut up? I need to focus.”

“Come on honeycakes, let me have the rifle,” he whines softly, resuming the light strokes down your thigh.

“No. I know you. You’ll shoot the guy in the eye just to prove you can, he’ll realize something’s up, and it’ll blow our cover.”

“Why would I do that?” His voice oozes shocked sweetness.

“Because you’re a showoff,” you mutter.

“I’m not a show-off,” Bucky argues and somehow in the narrow space he manages to crawl on top of you, straddle your hips and start licking your neck. “Sometimes I’m just vindictive, I can’t help that. Now come on and give me the rifle, hmm? Please? I got stabbed earlier, you should let me have my way. If I have internal bleeding and I die later, you’ll feel really bad about not giving me this one little thing. Come on, hand it over.”

He sucks your earlobe and tugs with his teeth. 

Long ago, this strategy might have worked.

He _is_ charming.

He _excels_ at sweet talk.

He _is_ murderously adorable.

The only thing working against him now – is that you know he’s completely full of shit.

“Get off me, you weigh a ton,” you respond instead, wiggling your shoulders to shrug him away.

“Did you just call me fat?” he whispers. He bites your ear harder.

“Maybe,” you shiver at the petulant huff warming your neck.

“I am _offended_.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not, but someone with less self-confidence might be and would you like that on your conscience?”

“I’ll manage.”

In that moment, the crosshairs find him, a tall man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, his blond hair slick and shining. Even though he’s dead set on being an annoying little shit, Bucky instantly recognizes your posture change and goes motionless above you. Taking a deep breath, focusing on the small mole on the back of the blond’s neck, you gently squeeze the trigger. With a twitch, the rifle silently expels the microscopic dart and you know it’s a direct hit when the man scratches absently at the patch of skin above his collar.

Bucky gives a hum of approval and plants a sloppy kiss on your neck. 

“Nailed it. High five,” he says and reaches between his legs to slap your ass. “But how come you’re always so _mean_ to me? And why the hell does it turn me on so much?”

Breaking down the weapon, you pack it back in the purse and snap it shut.

“Because you’re a fucking masochist.”

“True. So – now what?”

“Now we wait.”

As the words leave your mouth, the chandeliers begin to dim, the hum of voices dropping as the crowd of people shuffle to their seats.

Folding your arms, you lay your head down to wait. Bucky finally stops fidgeting, settling on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smells like attic dust and irony blood, but his heavy presence is a warm and comfortable weight.

All fades to black. Absolute silence.

The single note trembles in the darkness, the vibrating twang of a cello. Low lights slowly illuminate the small platform at the front of the ballroom, revealing three musicians and the sudden haunting whine of a violin shatters the stillness.

The air overflows with music, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, a symphony of classics bleeding together, never pausing. Bucky stays still above you, his only concession to movement when he occasionally presses his lips to the space behind your ear, breathing in the familiar lingering scent.

And sure, he drives you bonkers half the time and he may be _utterly_ full of shit, but a simple fact remains.

Nothing in the world, beats the feel of his mouth on your skin.

Ninety minutes of magic fly by and applause fills the room as the lights come up for intermission, the audience leaping to their feet. No one notices the blond man seated halfway back, slumped in his seat, nor the shadowy figures of two people energetically arguing as they slip from a hidden exit in the back.

*****

From a distance, you spy the neon sign, the only beacon of colorful life along this desolate stretch of highway. Bucky perks up and bounces in his seat. 

“There it is! Pull over.”

“Bucky, no. I’m tired and you’re bleeding on my leather seats and I want to go home and shower.”

“But I’m hungry. I’m _literally_ wasting away.”

“Figuratively. You are _figuratively_ wasting away.”

“So, you agree then, I’m wasting away and we should stop.”

“Oh my god, _fine_.”

Swerving into the parking lot with a screech of tires, both of you clamber from the vehicle still debating his rampant disregard for basic language definitions and stomp into the brightly lit Taco Bell. At this lonely hour, it’s nearly empty, minus the energetic high school kid with headphones using his mop as an air guitar, the line cook playing Jenga with a towering stack of tomatoes, and the bored woman behind the counter, chomping her gum and watching your bickering approach with interest.

Glancing at Bucky, you flinch at the image. The harsh light throws his wounds into sharp relief, bruises already fading from dark purple to sickly greenish-yellow. The gray t-shirt is shredded and stiff with blood and sweat and what appear to be chocolate fingerprints, lifted from the half-melted M&Ms he found in your glove box. 

To be fair, you don’t look much better. The previously elegant heels dangle from loose fingers, speckled with blood and holding two wilted feathers. Covered head to toe in dust and cobwebs, your knees are scraped up and your polished toes curl bare against the floor.

What the hell possessed you to walk barefoot into a 24-hour Taco Bell you’ll never know, but alas. Here you are. 

Bucky saunters up to the register and slaps his grimy hands on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile and what he believes to be a sexy wink. She simply raises an eyebrow and snaps her gum.

“Hello. I want the dollar menu,” Bucky says, squinting up at the sign.

“Which items?”

“All the items,” he replies promptly. “And a _diet_ soda please, not a regular one. I’m cutting back on the calories, apparently I need to watch my weight. The lady here says I’ve been pudging out.”

Pinching the non-existent fat on his washboard of a stomach, he gives her a conspiratorial nod and points back to you.

“I most certainly did _not_ say that,” you huff, glaring at him.

“Yes, you did, you called me fat earlier,” he reminds you. “Remember? When I was on top of you and tried to pull up your dress?”

The woman stares at him and blows a pink bubble. Her eyes slide to you and she gives you a slow nod, the kind that clearly says _nice_.

“No,” you say sternly, pointing a warning finger. “Christ no. Do not encourage him.”

Bucky laughs, the sound of his husky voice echoing through the restaurant and dammit, he looks like someone threw a brick at his face and used him to sharpen their knives, but he’s still the most attractive man you’ve ever met and how’s that for annoying? 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back on the road, flying along as Bucky holds tight to his food and watches the highway intently, counting out road signs. Finally, he points to a small green number.

“This is it, last stop,” Bucky says, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slow down, the road’s there.”

Arguing is futile, so you follow his directions, turning off the highway and bumping down a narrow strip of unmarked road. The path winds further and further and you wonder at his end game, until the trees suddenly clear and you hit the brakes in surprise. 

The night sky extends in front of you, an infinite black road to the stars twinkling above the black ocean waves, a dazzling full moon low on the horizon. The secluded beach is empty, a quiet world existing for you and Bucky alone – and when you turn to him, you see him watching you with an adoring grin.

That damn smile. It gets you every time.

“I swear Barnes, you’re good. You’re really good,” you admit and Bucky tips his head back and starts to laugh.

Climbing from the car, you dig out a plaid blanket from your trunk, and with heels and soda in hand, the echo of crashing waves pulls you through the darkness. Finding a flat space, you fluff the blanket out and collapse, stretching out with a soft groan and closing your eyes.

Bucky drops his bag full of cheesy beef burritos and chicken quesadillas and caramel apple empanadas and kicks off his boots with a matching groan of pleasure. Falling to the blanket he rolls onto his stomach and tears into the food, making his way through each item in silence. Long minutes tick by as the damp breeze blows over your skin and you begin to doze.

“You know,” he finally says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m calling it. Tonight? Best. Date. _Ever_. Gonna be hard to top this.”

Rolling to the side, you prop your chin in your hand. “Come again?”

“Yeah, I planned it perfectly! The whole night, it was all things you wanted to do.” He finishes chewing the last bite, tucks the wrappers into the bag and sits up on his knees, ticking off the evening’s events.

“So first, we did a fun couples activity.”

“Me saving you from an ass beating and you snapping a guy’s neck isn’t exactly a couple’s activity, but sure.”

“Second, I got us private box seats, so we could go to a – sold out I might add – classical music concert.”

“I mean, again with the murder and now a massive dry-cleaning bill, but okay.”

“And to cap off the perfect date, we’re having a romantic moonlit picnic on the beach.”

The sarcastic quip balances on the tip of your tongue and in all fairness, Bucky expects a sassy response. Sass is the bedrock of your relationship.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, you absorb the pure beauty of the glowing white sand and of Bucky’s handsome face, reflecting on everything about him that led you here tonight.

He’s incorrigible.

A pain in the ass. 

Ridiculous.

Passionate.

Hilarious.

Adorable. 

The love of your life.

Damn. You’re head over heels for this idiot.

Nodding slowly, your lips curve into the smile he loves so well, the one that melts his heart, the one he went to outrageous lengths to pull from you tonight.

“Yeah. You’re right Buck. You pretty much nailed it.”

Bucky grins at the compliment. He picks up your left hand, brushes specs of sand away, and places two kisses on your finger.

One above your wedding band, one below.

Contentment sings through his veins and he threads his fingers through yours.

“Happy anniversary honey.”

“Happy anniversary Bucky.”

“Do me a favor, yeah?” Bending closer, he rubs his mouth lightly against your forehead, your nose, your lips. He drinks up the word with a blissful sigh when he hears your reply.

“Anything.”

“Get those heels back on, I ain’t letting them go to waste.”

Laughing, you hand him the shoes and he pulls your legs apart and crawls between them, slipping the heels gently on your feet one at a time, leaving wet kisses on each ankle.

The filthy smile is back.

He tugs up your skirt.

And this time, you go with it.


End file.
